Assumed Identity

10

“Cindy?” Doyle hurried into the house.

The kitchen was deserted.

“Cindy?”

No answer.

Doyle turned to Buchanan. “The door was locked. Her car’s still here. Where would she go on foot? Why would-? Cindy?” Doyle hurried deeper into the house.

Buchanan stayed in the kitchen, frowning out a side window toward the driveway and the street.

“Cindy?” he heard from a room down the hall.

At once Doyle’s voice softened. “Are you. .? I’m sorry I woke you, honey. I didn’t know you were sleeping. When I found the door locked, I worried that something might have. .”

Doyle’s voice softened even more, and Buchanan couldn’t hear it. Uneasy, he waited, continuing to stare outside.

When Doyle came back to the kitchen, he leaned against the refrigerator and rubbed his haggard cheeks.

“Is she all right?” Buchanan asked.

Doyle shook his head. “After we left, she threw up her lunch. She felt so weak she had to lie down. She’s been sleeping all afternoon.”

“Did any strangers phone her or come around and bother her?”

“No.”

“Then why was the house locked?”

Doyle looked confused by the question. “Well, obviously so she’d feel safe while she was napping.”

“Sure,” Buchanan said. “But when you got here, you were surprised to find the door locked. You assumed she’d gone somewhere, which means she’s not in the habit of locking the door while she’s home.” Buchanan walked toward him. “And that means the reason she locked the door is I’m here. She senses I brought trouble. And she’s right. I did bring trouble. I don’t belong here. You can’t worry about me while you’re worried about-”

The ringing of the phone seemed extra loud.

Doyle flinched.

Buchanan gestured for him to pick it up. “This is your house. If I answer, it’ll seem unusual. We have to pretend everything’s normal. Hurry, before Cindy-”

Doyle grabbed the phone. “Hello?. . Who is this? What do you want him for?. . Listen, you son of a bitch. My wife might have answered. If you bother her, if-”

It’s going to pieces quickly, Buchanan thought. We’re almost to the point where anybody listening to a recording of what we said would have to wonder if I’m really the man I claim to be. He motioned sharply for Doyle to be quiet and wrested the phone from him. “I told you to stop.”

“Crawford, your buddy sounds as if he’s losin’ it,” Bailey said. “I guess that’s because his wife is sick, huh? Too bad. A nice-lookin’ gal like that.”

Yeah, you did your homework, Buchanan thought. You’ve been watching. You must have flown to Miami right after I did. You drove to Fort Lauderdale and staked out where I’m supposed to be working. You found out where the man who pretends to employ me lives. You waited for me to get out of the hospital, and if I didn’t show up for work, that would prove I wasn’t who I claimed to be. Then you could really make trouble.

“A hundred thousand dollars. Tomorrow, Crawford. If you don’t think I’m serious, you’re in for a surprise. Because, believe me, I will call the cops.”

At once, Buchanan heard the dial tone.

Pensive, he set down the phone.

Doyle’s face was crimson. “Don’t ever yank a phone out of my hand.”

“Jack, honey?”

They spun.

Cindy wavered at the entrance to the kitchen. She gripped the doorjamb. Her skin was pale. The black-and-red handkerchief had slipped, exposing her hairless scalp. “Who was that? Who were you yelling at?”

Doyle’s throat made a sound as if he was being choked. He crossed the room and held her.